


Labors of Love

by carpfish



Category: A3! (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, M/M, No Spoilers, Not Beta Read, Shippy Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2020-01-01 07:48:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18331730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carpfish/pseuds/carpfish
Summary: 2 Artists + 1 Night Before Deadlines = 0 Sleep, obviously. Kazunari and Tsuzuru are artists, and boy are they suffering.





	Labors of Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fimbulvetr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fimbulvetr/gifts).



> Quick Discord request from Jun! Only shippy if you squint. (Honestly, the real ship here is Tsuzuru x Caffeine x Kazunari)

"Pass me another Red Bull."

"We're out, that was the last one."

"Fuck, seriously?"

"I have some Boss if you want."

"Give."

"On one condition."

"What?"

"Kill me."

Tsuzuru tears his gaze away from his laptop screen for the first time in hours, and heaves a sigh. Despite his dramatic plea for death's sweet release, Kazunari wordlessly hands him a can of coffee, not even glancing up from where his own face hovering barely a hair’s width away from his canvas.

It's different, Tsuzuru thinks, to have company for these joyless all-night cram sessions of death. Company that is suffering along with him, that is-- not complaining about the noise and feeding him whole packs of uncooked instant ramen. Masumi has long fled the room to sleep in the corridor outside the Director's room instead, so Kazunari has liberally transformed every square centimeter of Room 102's floor into his temporary studio.

The man himself has also taken a turn for the serious, abandoning his usual style and flair in light of their grave situation. Kazunari's hair is flat and unstyled, clothes unpreciously splattered with paint stains, and every so often, he pauses to adjust the pair of heavy-rimmed glasses sliding down his nose. He looks a lot like the way Tsuzuru imagines he did back in his storied middle school bookworm days. Even his speech patterns have changed- the hour is too late and the deadlines too close for frivolities such as sleep, slang, and breathing.

This too is different and fascinating, if Tsuzuru gives himself a moment to ponder it. It isn't that Kazunari doesn't work hard, but it's rare to see him cramming so close to the deadline. Tsuzuru almost pities his senpai's predicament. Then again, he's not the one who decided to make a series of ukiyo-e style paintings in pointillism. Tsuzuru can practically hear Citron's voice singsong in his head: _In my country, we call that_ **_royally fucking yourself over,_ ** _Miyoshi._

Tsuzuru barely notices that his eyes haven’t been registering any of the words on his screen until he’s brought back to his senses by the pop of an opened coffee can. Kazunari tosses his head back to inhale the entire 190mL can in about 20 seconds, before giving a huge, beleaguered sigh.

“Tsuzurun, I think my eyeballs are gonna fall out any second,” Kazunari whines, stiffly rising to his feet as he rubs at his eyes from under his glasses. “I seriously need a break.”

It takes a rather impressive tiptoed balancing act for Kazunari to navigate his way to the island in a sea of paintings that is Tsuzuru’s desk. Once he’s close enough, he picks up the still-unopened coffee can from before, and shoves it into Tsuzuru’s face. “You drink too, Tsuzurun,” he orders, leaving no room for argument. “You’ve been spacing out for the past 5 minutes. Your cursor hasn’t moved at all.”  

Turning to look at his disappointingly low word count, Tsuzuru has to admit that Kazunari’s right. He’s making no progress at all on this script, so he might as well stop staring at the screen in hopes that text will magically appear. At least Kazunari seems to feel a bit better after the coffee, if the reappearance of “Tsuzurun” is anything to go by, so maybe what worked for him will work for Tsuzuru as well.

As Tsuzuru pops open the Boss can and chugs at a speed that would put most _paripi_ to shame, Kazunari leans in over Tsuzuru’s shoulder and starts reading his screen. “This is for Winter Troupe’s next play, right?” He scans a few lines of the script with a pensive look. “A fairytale adaptation? Don’t you usually save those for Spring Troupe?”

“Yes, but _The Little Mermaid_ was originally a tragedy. I thought that would be more up Winter’s alley.”

“Who do you think you’ll have play the mermaid? Azu is the obvious choice, but Hisohiso hasn’t had a lead role yet.”

“Mikage-san’s pretty good at putting on a distant front, so I thought he might work as an inhuman character, but I’m having trouble. The mermaid is so passionate in the original story, so it’s a bit hard to reconcile.”

“Right, the mermaid does it all for love, and then just dies in the end, right? That’s pretty dark, isn’t it? The author must’ve been a gloomy guy.”

“Yeah, Andersen was a real cynic, actually.” Tsuzuru notices his voice getting louder and louder, but he can’t help it. For the past two hours, his thoughts have felt like a dammed up river: sluggish, stagnant, unable to flow from his brain to the page. But with every word that leaves his lips, it’s as if another stone has been plucked from the dam, ideas now leaking through with urgent clarity. “In fact, it’s a pretty weird juxtaposition for a cynical author to have such idealistic character.”

Kazunari’s expressions are dulled from obvious exhaustion, but his eyes remain wide and gleaming, as if he’s catching on to what Tsuzuru’s getting at. “And that would match the contrast between fantastic and mundane, mermaid and human, right?”

Tsuzuru’s mind is already far away, immersed in images of crashing waves against rocky cliffs and glimpses of gleaming fish scale beneath sunset-kissed waves. Immediately, he dives for his laptop, now certain that he’ll have a draft together before sunrise. “Sorry, Miyoshi-san! Can’t talk now! I’ve gotta- Yes! Mikage-san _would_ make a good Andersen! The struggles of a writer as a framing device, it’s perfect!” The silence of the room is now filled with the clatter of rapid-fire typing and Tsuzuru’s flooding onto his laptop screen.

Vaguely, in the corner of his awareness, Tsuzuru can hear Kazunari groaning as he tiptoes back to his canvas and begins painstakingly painting dots again. In the morning, after Tsuzuru’s handed in the script, passed out, and then rejoined the land of the living, he’ll thank Kazunari and return him a coffee. But for now, nothing matters but the steady rise of his word count and the doomed romance between a writer and his own creation. Kazunari is sure to understand, Tsuzuru thinks to himself. Because Kazunari is an artist too.

 


End file.
